Angels We Have Heard On High
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: Napoleon is usually the picture of holiday cheer, but his mood is definitely dour and for good reason. He's the only one left. Written for 2016 Down the Chimney


The amber liquid caught the reflection of the lights and they danced in a wild frenzy as Napoleon sloshed it. He stared at the bottle until the cognac settled, then he sent it spinning again – a working man's snow globe.

Once the bottle had been filled, but over the years the level had dropped bit by bit. He didn't even dare sample it now, lest it vanish and all that he would have left behind were memories. At times, it was hard to believe only ten years had passed. At other times, it felt as if the years dragged on intolerably.

The music on the radio was interrupted by an ad, Macy was still pushing even though there were just a few hours of shopping left this Christmas Eve. There was a weather report, snowy and cold, what a surprise for December in the north! Then the music started back up. He knew the songs, he knew all the songs, and he just didn't care about their message of joy and hope anymore.

There was a knock, a coded knock, on the door and Napoleon let his head roll on its pillow. He had two choices, answer it or have Illya come in. For some reason, it seemed less unseemly to let him in. With a grunt, Napoleon got to his feet, leaving the warmth of the fire and shuffled across the thick carpet to the hall.

He paused to touch the coat stand, wincing at the static electricity shock. Illya's knock was getting more pointed.

"I'm coming," he muttered and opened the door.

Illya was standing there, snow covered and holding two large shopping bags. His cheeks were stained red and his eyes were bright, Napoleon figured, not entirely from the Christmas spirt. "I'm surprised you're in."

"And yet here you are." Napoleon turned and headed back to his living room, looking so bright and festive.

"Napoleon?" Illya seemed torn for a moment. Then he stepped in and set down his burden. Taking off his coat and hat, he sat to pull off his galoshes and walked barefoot to where Napoleon had settled.

Napoleon looked up at him and gestured to a chair. "You're here, so why don't you have a seat? _Mi casa es su casa._ "

"What is wrong, Napoleon? Usually you are very festive today."

Napoleon waved a hand towards an end table where a crumpled up piece a paper sat among the artificial greenery. Illya rose and retrieved the paper.

 _Dear Mr. Solo,_

 _We regret to inform you that Captain Dalton has passed away. Your name and address was found in his effects…_

Illya didn't read anymore. "You were close to Captain Dalton?"

"Not really. We used to call him Stupid Stewie, not usually to his face."

"Yet he rose to the rank of captain."

"Yeah, so who was the stupid one?" Napoleon polished off his drink and started to struggle out of the chair. Illya's voice arrested his movements as he snatched up the empty glass.

"Let me. You are drinking Scotch?"

"Bourbon."

"Really?" Illya lifted the bottle and read the label. He shrugged his shoulders, added ice to Napoleon's glass and a second one for himself. He poured two fingers in each and returned to the sofa. He held his glass up and then sipped. "A gift?"

"CeCe thinks drinking bourbon is a sign of refinement, but in the end, booze is booze."

"Napoleon, I am sensing that there is a bit more to this man's passing than you are letting on. If you prefer, we will speak of it no more. I will finish my drink and my mission and be off."

"But you'd rather hear the story."

"It is very cold outside and I did bring dinner."

"You know where everything is." That was all the invitation Illya needed. Within short order, there were plates and utensils and a half dozen white cartons spread out on the coffee table. Napoleon didn't think he was hungry, but once he started, he realized he was ravenous.

They ate in silence, save for some small talk, until every box was emptied of its contents and Napoleon was sipping hot tea. At some point, they'd opened the curtains and the snow was coming down even more heavily.

"Looks like you might be stuck here tonight."

Illya shrugged his shoulders as he broke open a fortune cookie. "Your help will be needed in an embarrassing situation," he read, then laughed. "Well, being partnered with you, that is a given. The timing, ah, that's the question."

"Ha, ha." Napoleon opened his. "Poverty is inconvenient. Try to avoid it." Over the crunching, he heard Illya reply.

"Best advice I've heard all day."

"Me, too."

"Now this Captain Dalton-"

"Stuart was part of my unit when we were in Korea. People think of Korea as tropical, but it was worse than New York when it came to winters. They were bitterly cold and the snow never seemed to stop. It was Christmas Eve, 1952. They had declared a cease fire and we were holed up in a small abandoned village. We decided to have a look around. No, I decided we should and dragged the guys along. We were inseparable back then. Wherever I went, they followed."

"Even back then, you were a leader of men."

"Not always with the purest of intent at heart, though. We found a suitable house and broke in."

"Broke in?"

"Occupied territory. We thought it was the thing to do. We didn't think about the people driven from their homes or their land by the war. We just saw the spoils." Napoleon poured himself more tea. "Anyhow, whoever owned this particular house was fairly well off, by Korean standards. They had silver, china, jewelry, even a harpsichord—

"In Korea? Wouldn't the humidity make it…?"

"Are you telling this story or am I?"

Illya grinned and returned to his tea. "Sorry."

"Anyhow, none of that really interested us. Although we did manage to crank out a halfway decent version of _Angels We Have Heard On High_ on that thing. Who knew Stewie could play the frigging harpsicord? What did interest us was their food and drink. They had all sorts of alcohol and we, being five young men, well, you can imagine what happened next. Six months of crappy Army food and all that wine…"

Illya nodded. "I can imagine."

"We built a huge roaring fire, found some food and decided to have a party. It was the first time in weeks we'd been warm and facing the prospect of a good meal. Roy was a helluva cook and he rustled up a real banquet. Well, the night was progressing and Art decided he needed to go outside for a minute."

"Outside?"

"Priceless works of art on the wall, but they still had an outhouse. That is the dichotomy that was Korea. Clarence told him to just use the corner of a room. Even Stewie knew you didn't go poking your nose outside at night."

"But it was Christmas Eve and there was a cease fire."

"Yeah… Art didn't even feel a thing. He opened the front door and took the bullet right between his eyes. He was my best friend and I watched the back of his skull explode like a water balloon." Napoleon stopped and looked away at that point, rapidly blinking.

"Napoleon, I'm sorry."

"Me, too." After a moment, he cleared his throat and continued. "It united us and so we decided to make a pact right then and there. Every Christmas Eve, we would drink a toast to Art… and then to Clarence. He was helping clear a field for the locals. He stepped on a mine about four years later."

"And Roy?"

"He was never quite right afterward that night. He went a little crazy and tore up a teahouse in Seoul. He got a medical discharge and sent home. For a while, it was okay, but then he started drinking and got so drunk one night that he passed out in a puddle. He drowned in two inches of water."

"So you and Stewart were the only two remaining."

"Yeah… until I got that. Me, I left the minute my hitch was up. Whatever I was going to do, I knew it wasn't going to be with the military. I came home and went to college and, well, you know the rest. Stewie, he decided to make the military a career. He was my age and a parachutist landed on him. What a way to go." Napoleon snatched up the letter and carried it to the fire. A moment later, it was ash. "Now it's just me. Why?"

"You are a survivor, Napoleon. Just like me. It's what we do." Illya patted the couch.

"But what do we have to show for it, Illya? Here it is Christmas Eve and there's still war, famine, despair…" Napoleon sat, then leaned back and let his head loll back. "So much death and I'm running around trying to put out a fire with a squirt gun."

"Tell me, what did you do next after the death of your friend?"

"We grabbed Art and I sent everyone out the back just as a Korean squad came through the front. We took them out and retreated." Napoleon remembered the panic as they raced through the bitter cold, straight into the arms of his battalion leader."

"So four men lived and you were able to send your friend's body back to his parents because of your actions."

"But he might not have died at all if we'd stuck with our unit like we were supposed to. All because I wanted to look around and have some fun."

"Napoleon, you were twenty. You were doing the best you could. You can't look back with the wisdom you have now and criticize the actions of your youth." Illya reached for the last cookie and cracked it open. "There is the prospect of a thrilling time ahead for you," he read. "The cookies never lie. Did you ever stop to think that you are still here because you have something more to do with your life? Perhaps Captain Dalton's purpose was to keep that parachutist from dying by cushioning his landing. That was his purpose in life. Have you thought that countless people live because of you?" Illya thumped his chest. "That I am still alive because of you?"

"You?"

Illya nodded and reached for the bottle of cognac. He divided it into equal portions in their glasses and held his up to the fireplace. "Captain Dalton. We salute you." Then he turned back to Napoleon. "And I salute you, Napoleon. You are a good man and a good friend."

Napoleon snorted, but he drank anyways. The mantle clock began to chime and both men listened to it until it finished.

"Merry Christmas, Napoleon."

"Merry Christmas, Illya."

Illya set down his glass and returned to the hall where the second shopping bag stood. He carried it to the tree and proceeded to take several wrapped gifts out.

"These can wait until we are both more awake and sober, but I think this one you should open now." He handed Napoleon a rectangular box.

He tore the paper off and stared. "It's cognac."

"The last time I was here, I noticed that your bottle was getting low, so I got you a replacement."

" _Chateau de Monteifaud_? Illya, I can't take this. It's too much." Napoleon offered the bottle to Illya, who held up his hands and retreated a step.

"I can't take it back. Tomorrow, or rather later today, you can take me to an expensive restaurant and we can discuss it further." Illya stretched and yawned. "Now if you will excuse me, I plan to stay awake only as long as it takes me to get your guest room."

"Sleep well, my friend." He held up the bottle. "And thank you."

"Don't drink it all tonight."

"I promise. With you or not at all." Napoleon watched Illya's less-than- straight walk down the hall and smiled. He stood to look out on the city, now cloaked in white.

 _Angels We Have Heard On High_ began to play on the radio and Napoleon cleared his throat and began to sing along and just for a moment, he was twenty again and with his friends in a war-torn country, happy, invincible and alive. He could feel their arms wrapped around his shoulders and he began to sway slightly. He could hear the harpsicord, taste the kimchee and smell their uniforms. Tears rolled down his cheeks as they sang.

Illya stepped out of the guestroom and stopped. It looked like there were four other men with Napoleon, shiny and vaporous. He blinked and they were gone. Napoleon looked back over his shoulder at his partner.

"I'm sorry. Did I disturb you?"

Illya shook his head. "Not in the least. May I join you for the next chorus?"

And they raised their voices in celebration of love, the hope for peace and the wish of good will towards all people.


End file.
